Pulling the Trigger
by Rozsa
Summary: Some post-Loophole fun. Elliot can't be left to his own devices on disability leave, Liv got stuck in a men's room, and my favorite co-creation Aidan Murphy makes an appearance. For those not familiar with Murphy, picture Eric Dane in your head…that's what I do when I write him :) Spoilers up to and including Loophole.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Six more days.

Not that I'm counting.

There's a Rangers game on tonight. The boys are on the road in New Jersey and are, so far, not doing much to make light of my Captain-mandated disability leave. As was the case too often in my life as of late, it seems to me, the Devil (or Devils, as the case may be) has the upper hand early on. It hasn't been a particularly dirty game—the only three penalties of the first two periods have belonged to my boys. I grin to myself as I remember what I learned from my days on the ice in high school: the dirty plays are half the fun. It's hockey, for fuck's sake. The sport of bodies slamming into Plexiglas, gloves hitting the ice and fists colliding with whichever body part happens to be the most convenient.

I'd been a pretty decent shot-maker, but had quickly learned that I did not like people messing with my teammates. That's an understatement. I fucking _hated_ people messing with my teammates. Retaliating on their behalf tends to cramp the style of a center, however, and after more than my fair share of minutes in the penalty box, my coach put me on the "D", where it was practically expected that I protect my own. Eye for an eye. Hook for a hook. Fist to the jaw for a slash…all is fair in retaliatory defense. Play dirty with me, I'll show you how dirty _I_ can play.

Into the third period, the Rangers take another trip to the box. It's not part of any vengeful strategy due to a missed call or a sneaky hit by the Devils. No, this is more a part of the strategy that dictates when you're going down in flames and said flame is far from being of a blaze of glory, you may as well burn some folks on the way down. The penalties have belonged to the Rangers, but the only goal to the Devils. Unfortunately, it looks like it's going to remain that way.

Leaving the last few minutes to tick away, I wander into the kitchen to rummage around for something to eat. I'm standing in front of the open refrigerator, blankly scanning the shelves and waiting for the inevitable sound of the horn that will put the last nail into the Rangers' coffin when my cell phone beats the horn to the punch. I push the refrigerator door closed and follow the ring back to the living room where I snag the phone from the coffee table. I flip it open and read the LCD screen, which simply states, "LIV." Pressing the answer button, I lift the phone to my ear and open with, "You close that case with Danforth?"

I knew as soon as Danforth's attorney took Casey's deal that Elliot would have to be the first person I called. After all, he was the one responsible for my ending up crouched on a toilet in the men's room of a corporation I desperately wanted to bring to its knees. I dial his number as I unlock my front door and he answers just as I close and lock it behind me, toeing off my work shoes in the process.

"You close that case with Danforth?" Just like him…getting right to the point.

"Yeah, we did," I respond. "Casey's office is drawing up the paperwork tomorrow." I bend down to swoop my shoes up off the floor and beeline for my bedroom, shoes in hand.

"We who?" he questions.

"Huh?"

"You said we. We who?"

"We – us. You and me." Who else would be part of a "we" with me, I wonder. My shoes make it to the closet. "El, I never would have gotten the information I needed if you weren't exactly the type of stubborn son of a bitch who would sneak into the station in the middle of the night to avoid having Cap catch him breaking disability leave." I'm in the bathroom now, using the hand not holding the phone to slip my pants over my hips and allow them to drop to the floor before stepping out of them.

His acknowledging chuckle is more of a snort. "I'll take that as a compliment, I think."

Despite the sarcastic nature of his laugh, I can almost hear the smile in his voice, which only naturally brings one to my own lips. "I wouldn't have meant it any other way. Anyway, that's kind of why I was calling."

"To call me names?" he jokingly asks.

"Well, that, and to see if you were at all hungry. I just got home from the station and I'm starving." Food, however, is not the only thing on my mind right now. The other one is a shower.

"I could eat; but what does that have to do with you calling me names?"

I roll my eyes. The consummate multitasker, I had used the time while he was responding to quickly wrestle my way out of my shirt without losing much contact with the phone. "Because, this one's on me. To thank you. For," I stop, searching for the words. How should I put this? "For teaching me how to fight dirty." There. I walk over to the shower stall, clad in no more than my underwear, and start the water running, closing the glass door to allow the water to warm up.

"Liv, I'm sure you already knew how. I just reminded you."

The unwavering nature of this man's confidence in my capabilities never ceases to astound me, even in this playful manner. I laugh lightly. "Well, then it's to thank you for refreshing my memory."

"You don't _owe_ me for that, Liv. I'm your partner—advice is on the house. Especially when it's as entertaining as a dirty fight. That's as much fun for _me_ as it is you."

Of course, the unwavering nature of this man's _stubbornness_ never ceases to _exasperate_ me. I sigh. "Seriously, El." It's not a question, but a statement. "You're actually turning down free food? Seriously." My voice is disbelieving, but apparently convincing, because he relents.

"Now, you _know_ I'd never do that," he quickly states.

I smile, victorious. "That's what I thought. So, I'll meet you in thirty?"

"Where did you have in mind?"

"Your front steps."

"If you think I'm packing a picnic at ten o'clock at night, you're out of your mind."

That one gets a longer laugh. "No picnic. All you have to bring is the name of the place where you want to eat." I clap my phone shut, slide it onto the counter, and strip the rest of the way before stepping into the shower.

I find myself wondering just how in the _world_ that woman manages to read my mind over a wireless telephone connection. I'm still standing in my kitchen, staring into the relatively pathetic contents of my refrigerator when she starts talking about food. I finally give up my search and close the door when she challenges my rejection of her offer with a skepticism born of eight years spent learning my appetite.

It's actually not until a few seconds after she hangs up that I realize I heard something akin to running water in the background. Well, not something _akin_ to it. _Actually _it. Running water. As in a shower. A shower that my partner was most likely about to get into. People shower naked. My partner showers naked. Olivia, my partner, who I was just talking to on the phone, was running a shower _while _she was talking to me. Meaning there was a distinct possibility that she could have been naked or at least partially so while using one hand to hold her telephonic connection to me up to her ear.

Holy shit.

There is _no_ reason that this information should cause a slight southern redirection of blood flow in my body. None.

Just as there was no reason to make me feel compelled to keep my bicep flexed even as that sadistic bastard of a doctor was sticking a needle into the gash on my arm as Olivia watched me with soft eyes and a worried brow.

And _she_ shouldn't have been the reason I was drawn to the station in the middle of the night. But, she was. She'd been released from the hospital, but I still worried. God only knew what she'd been exposed to and I wasn't being allowed to help find out.

I visited her. In the hospital, I mean.

She doesn't know that. She was asleep. They had wanted to keep her overnight for observation, which I know must have pissed her off, but when Cragen told me what had gone down, their decision at least made _me _feel better. I could have probably managed to convince the doctors otherwise had I wanted to try. I just didn't really want to try. I wanted to be sure she was okay. But Olivia would have wanted me to try. She would have _insisted_ that I try. So, it came down to this: either give in to her guilt trip and get her out of there or add fuel to her fire and refuse to do so. I made the safest choice in light of the situation.

I visited her in the middle of the night, when I was relatively sure she'd be sleeping.

After peering through the slats in the mini-blinds on her side of the window to confirm my suspicions, I slipped through the door and made my way to the far side of her bed. Another patient lie sleeping in the bed next to her own and I drew the curtain around Liv's space with my left hand (my right arm was going to be tethered to my body for another day still) to allow me some privacy. Me, not her. If Liv particularly cared about her privacy while sleeping in a hospital bed, she'd have closed the curtain herself. I, however, needed the privacy to hold my own silent vigil at her bedside. I didn't want my internal struggle to convince myself that she was alright to be interrupted. So, I settled into a horrendously uncomfortable chair for the next two and a half hours, not the least bit tired, and just watched.

Munch is so practiced in his conspiracy-theorizing about Big Brother that he's reliably very observant about what happens at the precinct. He's the one who told me about Cragen tearing into Olivia for her little appearance at Danforth.

I knew after they released her that Liv would be on a crusade to nail the sons of bitches responsible for the pesticide "study," so I wasn't a bit surprised she'd done what she'd done. I also knew that despite Cragen's warnings, she'd have herself holed up in the stationhouse around the clock. But I could only hope she would be the _only_ one there the night I chose to drop by. Her eyes had been glued to her computer screen and I knew instantly that she probably hadn't slept much since her hospital stay. I had arrived prepared to do battle over asking her to ease up a bit, for her own sake. What I was in no way prepared for was hearing Liv refer to herself as a "victim." I remember having to make a conscious effort to keep my cool and not recoil at the term because it had certainly hit me with enough force to knock me over.

The last thing in the world I'd _ever_ want Olivia Benson to be is a victim.

But she's okay. The doctors say she's okay.

And I now only have twenty minutes before she shows up at my building. I have no idea what to do with myself for the next twenty minutes. I've already showered. I'm halfway dressed. Got my jeans on, anyway. It's not as though throwing on a shirt and shoes will take longer than a couple minutes. I really have no idea why I'm obsessing over this anyway. I've been left to my own devices for the past eight days—what's another twenty minutes? Eighteen, actually. Well, two down.

SportsCenter. I'll watch SportsCenter. They'll have the hockey recap. Of course, I already know how it ended. There really wasn't any other way for it to go. Well, damn.

I'll just shower again.

Thirteen minutes later, I'm jogging down the stairs of my apartment building, shrugging on my leather jacket. My head is down when I open the door to the outside and, when I raise it, she's there. Leaning back against the cab parked alongside the curb, arms crossed over her chest, her hair falling onto her shoulders in loose waves, she's there. It occurs to me that I've never seen her hair like that and I wonder fleetingly if the wave is natural. If, for all these years, all her hairstyles, she's had to force the wave to flatten out. And, if that's the case, I wonder why she'd done that, because if this is what her hair looks like with minimal effort, she can save herself the extra time in the mornings and I would be perfectly happy. It looks liberated. It looks relaxed. Relieved. It looks like she just got out of bed after a night of ridiculously wild sex and it's fucking _hot_ as the innermost circle of hell. Whoa. _What_? I pause on the front steps and narrow my eyes in her direction. "You're early," I tell her.

She regards me for a moment, untucks her left hand and looks down at her watch. She crosses her arms back and returns her gaze to me, her lips curling in a half-smile. "So are you," she counters.

I shrug, hands in my jacket pockets. Touche.

Suddenly, she's looking at me strangely. Her eyes have narrowed slightly, a bemused smirk on her lips. Then she looks down at herself. Her hands disappear into her jacket pockets as she brings her eyes back to mine. Her leather jacket pockets. Her smirk grows.

"What?" I ask.

"People are gonna think we planned this, Elliot." She sounds as amused as she appears.

"Planned what?"

"This." To clarify, she holds her hands out, still in the pockets, effectively opening the panels of her jacket.

It takes me a few seconds to realize she's talking about our choice of wardrobe. Both in dark-washed jeans, black leather jackets and rather fitted shirts—mine a gray T-shirt, hers a deep emerald cashmere sweater with a wide "V" for a collar. I grin at her. "Well, if you'd stop reading my mind, this wouldn't happen."

She smiles back. "Well, obviously my psychic abilities aren't _that_ well-tuned, because I have no idea where you want to eat. Where's it gonna be?" She pushes her back away from the cab and goes to open the door.

I stop her by saying, "No cab. It's close. We can walk," as I descend the rest of the steps and move toward her.

She turns and eyes me for a moment, before leaning down to the open passenger window to pay and thank the cab driver, who quickly drives away. I've come to stand behind her and when she straightens and turns to face me, she looks momentarily surprised at my sudden proximity. I, for my part, am momentarily surprised by her stature, as she stands looking me nearly in the eye without so much as a tilt of her head. "You got taller," I comment.

She ducks her head almost guiltily. "I'm cheating," she admits. Her body weight shifts a bit to her left and I look down to see that she has bent her right knee, bringing her calf up. She's holding it out to the side a bit to display the four-inch heel on the black pumps on her feet for my benefit. Her brown eyes watch me until she's sure I've seen them before setting her foot back down.

I'm a stickler for personal space. How Elliot has managed to sneak into mine over the years, I'll probably never know. It's just always seemed…_natural_…for him to be there, for it to be _his_ space, too. Lately, however, I've found myself increasingly aware of his presence. There has been a level of discomfort I'm not used to. I have assumed it's been due to the angry and scathing way we've treated each other for the past two years. Or due to the newfound awkwardness we've adopted since I got back from Oregon. Tonight, though…tonight it doesn't feel that way. Tonight my discomfort isn't manifesting itself as tension or defensiveness. Tonight, when I turn around to find him standing about two feet over the personal space line and about a foot away from me, it's showing up as a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. Honestly, you'd think I'd swallowed about a hundred cocoons and they'd all chosen this moment to crack open and release the fluttering insects inside.

Why? I have no fucking clue.

Perhaps it's the same thing that caused me to, at the last minute, grab my pair of red-soled black Christian Louboutin pumps from my closet as I reached for a pair of black boots. I mean, these are the shoes that a ridiculously wealthy friend of mine insisted that I needed and had subsequently bought me as a birthday gift last year. The shoes I'd heard her call "sex on stilettos." Shoes I'd insisted _just_ as strongly that I did not need, as I certainly wouldn't have many occasions to wear them. She then told me that if they worked for me just one time it would be well worth it to her.

And here I stand, no more than twelve inches from my partner, in my several hundred dollar sex on stilettos that I was rather unapologetic about brandishing at him just now. Explain _that_ one.

Elliot smiles triumphantly at me then, claiming "See? I told you that you knew how to fight dirty. Cheater." He turns to step away and I fall into pace with him.

"So, where are we going?" I ask.

He turns his head to the left to look at me when he asks if I've ever been to Pat O'Brien's. When I answer in the negative, he faces ahead. "It's a pub down the street Murph and I have been going to for years. More so now that I live so close."

I grimace. "Murphy?" I whine. "He's not gonna _be_ there, is he?" Perhaps I should have tried to not sound so hopeful in my desire that Elliot's long-time friend not appear at the same place we're headed.

He chuckles. "Come on, Liv. He's not that bad. I wish I'd introduced you sooner."

I scoff, my eyes trained on the sidewalk in front of me, hands still in my jacket pockets, as Elliot's are in his.

"He likes you."

I roll my eyes. "He calls me 'Sin', Elliot."

"That's a compliment." He says it as though I should know that. I guess I do. I know the meaning behind the nickname—I was there when he gave it to me.

Elliot and I had met up with Aidan Murphy and his partner, a man named JP Wilson, for drinks one night after the pair had closed off a grueling homicide investigation. Elliot and Murphy made the cross-introductions and, upon shaking my hand, Murph had given me what he probably thought to be his best "eat you up alive" stare, blown a breath through his lips and said, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." I slid my hand out of his, staring at him with wide eyes, before turning my stare to Elliot, seeking help. He didn't look at me, but rolled his eyes at Murphy, who continued "I have coveted another man's partner."

JP rescued me then, feigning insult, while I tried in vain to stop myself from blushing or anything of the sort. I was also valiantly trying to figure out what had just happened, because I'd been pretty sure that my partner's friend of twenty-something years had come on to me. In _front_ of my partner. Who did nothing. What did that mean exactly? Had Elliot _known_ this would happen? Had he _wanted _it to? Was this some kind of set up that I had no prior knowledge of? If so, why the hell would Elliot try to set me up with someone, much less a friend of his? He knew I'd kill him for trying. So he wouldn't try. That couldn't be it. So what? What the hell?

Of course, it had taken less than ten minutes of socializing with the two other men to realize that this was all just…Murphy. He was crass, sickeningly charming and arrogant. He knew _all_ of this. He also knew that he was a good bit better than average-looking. All of this combined made him quite the regular son of a bitch.

I _do_ like him, though. He's awfully fun to flirt with. Probably because there is entirely no danger in it. I rely on there being some unspoken rule that I am off-limits to Elliot's friends. After all, _I_ consider _myself_ off-limits to Elliot's friends. And, let's face it, most women enjoy having an attractive man flirt with them without an ulterior motive. It makes us feel good…special. I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't one of those women. But, I still have to whine about the prospect of seeing him, because that's just the game we play. Murphy plays obnoxiously interested, I play annoyed and Elliot plays Elliot. Honestly, I think he _enjoys_ watching the two of us duke it out. Probably because he knows neither of us means any harm and neither of us is being serious. So, he gets to enjoy his part as the neutral observant. He has, on occasion, intervened on my behalf for reasons I never really understood. It would be as though some invisible line of his had been crossed at some point and there he was, ready to defend it. I have yet to figure out what that line is.

My reverie is short-lived. Elliot, after assuring me the nickname was a complimentary one, goes on to say "Besides, in _those_ shoes, I think the name fits." His head nods ever so slightly down toward my feet. I follow suit briefly, catching a glimpse of my merlot-laquered toenails through the peep-toes of my shoes.

Oh. So he _did _take notice of the shoes. I'm not sure if that qualifies as the shoes having "worked" for me; but, I _do _know that, for whatever reason, it makes me not want to walk in them anymore.

It makes me want to _strut_ in them.

I also know that I need to say something before I start to blush. "So, why didn't you?"

He glances at me, brows furrowed. "Why didn't I what?"

"Introduce us sooner."

He shrugs nonchalantly.

After a few strides in silence, I look at him expectantly. "Well?"

"I dunno, Liv."

"Yeah, you do," I insist. "I can see it on your face."

He tries to joke his way out of it. "You mean you didn't fall for my stellar poker face?"

I shoot him a look that tells him he ought to know better. "I never fall for it, El." Then, I wait it out.

He thinks it over for a moment. "I guess it's just that Murphy is just…well…he's _Murphy_. You know how he is."

I nod. "Okay. And?"

"And, let's just say that based on his knowledge of you from word of mouth, I already took a lot of shit from him. Even when I was married. God only knows what he'd have escalated to if he'd actually _met _you. I don't know. I guess maybe I was afraid that he'd be too much of _himself_ around you and I didn't want to push that on you. I didn't need him giving _you_ shit, too."

"What'd he give you shit about? Having a female partner?" I ask before really thinking.

His answer comes faster than I'd anticipated. "Nope. Just about you."

I hesitate for a half-step and have to quickly compensate with a longer stride to come shoulder-to-shoulder with him again. We've already covered the three blocks to the pub and I can see the neon Guinness sign in the window. The entrance is on the corner closest to us, the heavy wooden doors elevated upon two small steps. As we reach the bottom of the steps, I manage to speak again. "Me? What about me?" I'm not sure I really want to know.

He climbs up the steps, standing on the landing, and pushes the door open with his right hand, bracing the door with his forearm to hold it open. He answers me while he's doing this. "About why I haven't slept with you yet." Only then does he look the short distance down at me, waiting for me to enter the restaurant.

Which is something I might do, if I weren't shocked motionless. All I can do is blink at him. Well, Casey would be pissed at me. Rule One of cross-examination: Never ask a question you don't already know the answer to. If you dare to venture into the unknown, you're stuck with whatever answer comes your way. If you're dumb enough to ask, you'd better be smart enough to recover.

"Oh." Good recovery. Just great. I drop my eyes from his and walk through the door, completely ignoring the whiff of cologne drifting off his body that I've somehow only now noticed, despite having just walked three blocks with the man. Noticed, and _completely_ ignored. It's certainly not lingering in the air I'm breathing. Not at all.

I need a beer.

I need a beer.

I don't know what on _earth_ possessed me to tell her what I just did. I figure since my mental-to-verbal filter isn't working, I may as well have a beer. Or two. As Olivia brushes by me into the pub, I catch a hint of her perfume and increase the number of necessary beers to at least three. Thanks to my lack of thinking before speaking, this may turn into a much longer night than I'd expected.

And I'm thinking of that as a bad thing _why_?

Probably because this is supposed to just be a quick dinner with my partner.

I follow her inside, letting the door swing closed behind me. It's a Tuesday night, so the place is anything but crowded. There are enough people milling around to make for a busy atmosphere, but not too many as to not allow us to seat ourselves in a booth along a side wall. She slides into the nearest side and I walk past to sit across from her. My eyes immediately flick longingly over my right shoulder to where the bar sits to the side and behind me. Then her calf brushes against the outside of my left leg and my gaze shoots back to her. She ducks her head slightly and mumbles a sheepish "Sorry."

"It's okay," I assure her. More than. But I don't say that. Now, if I could figure out why I'm _thinking_ it, that would be a great help.

"If I cross my legs, I'll bang my knee on the table if I don't stretch them out a little," she offers as an explanation for her limbs' intrusion into my side of the leg room.

I can only feel our calves touching. What's this about crossing her…oh shit. There it is right there. She's apparently crossed her right leg over her left, because the toe of her shoe and top of her foot are now curled lightly around the outside of my own right leg. I think I just felt a toenail gently poke the back of my calf.

Four beers. I am definitely going to need four beers.

A server drops by our table bearing napkin-wrapped silverware and two glasses of ice water, and I'm ready in an instant to get the first beer headed my way. Only, Liv beats me to it. She glances up at the college-aged girl with the green apron tied around her waist and requests a Guinness. I'm again ready to order my own, when Liv motions across the table at me with a flick of her wrist. "I'm pretty sure he needs one, too." The girl spins on her heels and heads off toward the bar.

I'm not entirely sure, but I think that…no, I'm sure. My partner just ordered for me. Huh. I must look a bit surprised because the look on her face is rather amused. She watches me for a few seconds. "What? You _did _need a beer, didn't you?"

She has no idea.

"Come on. I saw you staring at the bar. Besides, I figure you must be going stir crazy having to sit around home all day, so a beer will do you good. Remember, it's on me." She's kind of smirking now.

And she really _does_ have no idea, apparently. I have a sneaking suspicion that my craving for dark and foamy alcohol has very little to do with my DL and more to do with…holy shit, she just shifted her legs. That made her foot slide slightly up my calf as she withdrew her right leg and instead crossed her left over the right. She must have her legs tilted to the side now because I can feel her left knee bumping gently into mine. I never really realized how restless her legs can get until the day she showed up at my front steps before sunrise after the Sennet case. I remember this same feeling…her knee just lightly bumping against my own. It's a strange sort of restlessness, though. It doesn't seem jittery at all. More like a way to put a beat to things—a rhythm. A way to keep a steady undercurrent to whatever speed the rest of her is going at the time.

I suppose I should say something. "No, you're right. I need a beer. Of course, I'm pretty sure that won't be the only one I'm drinking, so why don't you let me get the bar tab? You can pick up dinner." There's no way I wouldn't feel guilty attacking the bar like I want to on her account.

"Uh-uh," she says with a shake of her head, waves of hair falling over her shoulders. "It's on me. All of it. I owe you." She narrows her brown eyes at me then. "Just how much are you planning to drink tonight, Stabler?"

No fucking clue. So I shrug.

She smothers a laugh and rolls her eyes before studying the menu. "Throw up on me and I'll kill you."

I go ahead and chuckle at her. "Don't worry, I'll keep you clean. My aim's pretty damn good."

"Yeah, but mine's better." She doesn't lift her eyes from the menu, but I can see her smile. "If you miss, I won't."

The first round of beer arrives and our server leaves with orders for two cheeseburgers—a bacon one for me, swiss and mushroom for her. I find myself relieved in a way when she orders her burger, making sure to clarify she'd like it medium-rare (like me), the way she always has. I'm smiling at her when she looks across the table. "What?"

My smile gets wider. "Just glad to see the eco-freaks didn't turn you into a vegetarian, too."

Her knee bumps mine. "Now you _know _that could never happen." She takes a sip of her beer and takes a few moments to really look around her at the interior of the pub. "This is a neat place. If the food's any good, I might be addicted."

"Admit it, you just want to hang out with Murphy more often." She rolls her eyes with a shake of her head as her gaze returns to mine. "So, what did you get out of Danforth?"

"They agreed to fully cover all lifetime medical expenses for the families that were exposed to the pesticide. That's what I'd wanted more than anything." She seems satisfied.

"What about you?" I ask.

Her forehead creases slightly as her brows furrow.

"You were exposed to it, too. Are they covering _your_ medical expenses?"

She considers this in such a way that suggests the thought had never occurred to her. Her gaze is trained on her beer, the fingers of her left hand wrapped around it while she traces the rim of the glass with her right index finger. "You know, I never even thought about it that way."

Just like Liv. Even though she called herself a victim, when it came right down to it, she always put everyone else first.

"I mean, I wanted to know what I was exposed to and what the risks were. I just never stopped to think that there could possibly be any long-term effects." She looks a bit worried now, drawing her lower lip into her mouth. That wasn't my intention. After all, she's fine. The doctor's say she's fine.

"Liv, I'm sure you're not going to have any long-term issues because of it. The doctor's cleared you already. I just thought it might be nice to never have to pay any doctor's bills again. Fantastic though our health plan may be," I add sarcastically.

She nods slowly, lifting her finger from the rim of the glass and bringing it to her mouth. Her lips, which I swear I'm only noticing are glistening with a sheer wash of a wine color, briefly wrap around it to remove the foam it's collected. She follows it with a long, contemplative sip of her Guinness. I think she believes me.

I press her on the details of the Danforth case, wanting to know exactly what kind of dirty playing I had her doing by the time I left the station that night. She spends the next several minutes describing how she spent far too long crouched on top of a toilet in the men's room of the corporate headquarters, feet perched precariously on either side of the seat, where one wrong shift of weight would result in her having a foot in the water. She glares at me when I begin to laugh uncontrollably, but she's soon joining in. I'm unbelievably proud of her for pursuing this case until the end. It isn't as though I'd have expected anything less of her—after all these years, I know to _never_ underestimate her or her determination to finish a job. When it's personal, however…when you're more wrapped up in a case than you want to be, it's always harder. But, then, she's Olivia. And she fought. She won.

It isn't long before two burgers and two more beers are laid in front of us. I immediately reach for the glass bottle of ketchup on the end of the table against the wall and she takes a drink from her second beer as she watches me pour a sizeable pool of it on the side of my plate. While I'm recapping the bottle, she grabs a French fry from her own plate, reaches across the table to mine and swipes it through the ketchup. As she leans forward, her knee presses into mine. She bites the fry in half, then looks at me with widened eyes. "What? Don't look at me like you didn't expect me to do that."

I twist my lips into a wry half-smirk as she pops the other half of the fry into her mouth. I'm not surprised, just amused. "I just still find it funny that, after all this time, you're _still_ too lazy to pour your own ketchup."

She narrows her eyes, dragging another fry across my plate. "I'm not lazy. I just hate those goddamn bottles. I'm cursed with them. I either get nothing or half the damn bottle all over my plate. And, don't give me that 'hit it on the 57' line," she says accusingly, pointing the red fry at me. "That's bullshit."

I _do_ know all of this, of course. She's been using my ketchup for almost eight years. I've learned in time to always pour enough for two people.

I ask her for more details as we start into the burgers. She gives them, and swaps her crossed legs again. I drain about a third of my beer when her foot finds its way around my calf again. She's beyond looking apologetic for it now—she's explained herself once, and for Olivia, that's enough. As far as I'm concerned, it's really nothing to be sorry about to begin with.

She asks me about the Rangers game because she now knows their schedule as well as I. After all these years, she converted into quite the satisfactory hockey fan. I don't think she'd ever given the sport the time of day when I'd first met her. She's nothing if not a fast learner, though. The first handful of years of our partnership, she learned by asking questions. If I were talking about a Rangers game, she'd ask questions. Later on, if I were talking about Dickie's pee-wee hockey league, she'd ask questions using her improved vernacular of the sport. Slowly, she began watching the occasional game, which I knew because she'd come to work the next day prepared to talk about it if I brought it up. She never broached the subject herself, but she was ready if it came her way.

I took her to a game a few years ago, before my marriage started falling apart. I dropped by her place to pick her up and informed her when she answered the door that her attire was entirely inadequate. I produced one of my Rangers jerseys from behind my back and yanked it over her head, covering her black sweater and essentially drowning her in the lightweight fabric. She'd scowled at me and run her hands through her hair where I'd just messed it up. She spent the first two periods studying, her eyes intent on the ice, following the puck, the players, all the action she could absorb. By the third period, she was on her feet calling the official a very unfriendly name for missing an obvious tripping call.

We should definitely do that again.

We're finishing dinner and round two of the Guinness when I hear him.


	2. Chapter 2

His voice is unmistakable. Of course, even if it weren't, his words would have given him away.

"Hey, lookie there…it's my best bud and my favorite sin…" he calls out.

I glance quickly at Elliot, rolling my eyes a bit, then turn my head left in the direction of the voice. Murphy, beer in hand, strides across the wide expanse of floor scattered with high tables in front of the bar because that's what Murphy does: he strides, he doesn't walk. I'm quick to note that he's sporting a leather jacket, jeans and a blue T-shirt. I'm apparently not the only one appraising wardrobes, because as he reaches our table and sets his beer down on the end, he makes a show out of flipping the sides of his jacket back and placing his hands on his hips. "Jesus Christ, look at us. We could be fuckin' triplets."

I level my eyes at him. "Better watch how you're standing there, Smurf. Someone might mistake you for David Caruso without the sunglasses."

He scoffs, taking one hand from a hip and pointing a finger in my direction. "Bite your tongue, evil woman. That was low." His feigned offense vanishes quickly and he bends down to plant a kiss on my left cheek. "How you doin', Sin?" He straightens up before I have a chance to answer and stretches his right hand across his body toward Elliot, who has been watching our exchange closely, but with a bemused expression. "How's it goin', man?"

Elliot claps his own hand into Murphy's and they shake briefly, though not with as much vigor as they usually do. Generally, they're yanking on each other's arms so hard it looks like they're trying to tear the other's shoulder out of its socket. Not that I'm complaining. It's actually kind of endearing seeing Elliot interacting with such a close friend—one who shared some of his most life-altering experiences. Their time in the Marines, service in the Gulf War, enrollment in the Academy, the birth of Elliot's children (he's Maureen's godfather). Their lives have been so drastically different in many ways, but in the most important of ways and the most critical of times, the two men are remarkably similar.

Murphy only takes it easy on Elliot tonight because he knows the stitches in his bicep had only come out yesterday. He releases Elliot's hand and slides into the booth next to me, running his right arm along the back behind me. As he does, he effectively scoots me over, so I'm no longer almost directly across from Elliot. I'm now having to look at him from an angle, and my foot was pulled away from his leg, leaving me with a strange sense of loss.

"So, what brings you guys here?" Murphy's eyes travel between Elliot and me, finally settling on me as he waggles his eyebrows and grins. "Confession?"

Funny he should say that, because I've had the urge to confess several things ever since Elliot told me he was glad I wasn't a vegetarian. For example, how much I missed him. How much I missed the times years ago when we could just joke with each other like this. How I missed coffee and that I was trying to slowly build back up a tolerance for caffeine because, truth be told, after drinking all that decaf tea on assignment, my body just couldn't handle it anymore. The first thing I did when I'd gotten to the airport to catch my flight home was hit up the closest coffee shop. I thanked God that no one was sitting next to me because I was so goddamn jittery that I probably would have either talked someone's ear off or accidentally hit them with a flailing hand because I couldn't keep my arms still.

Perhaps I'd confess why I pulled out the stilettos, but I still haven't quite figured that out for myself. Really, I didn't enter into this whole dinner thing with any ulterior motives. I wanted to thank my partner for helping me out. I wanted to spend some time with him, see if we couldn't heal a few wounds or gain back some sense of ease. I might confess that while I've always found couples who wear matching outfits to be annoying at a very twisted level that I have rarely felt as sexy as I did walking three blocks next to him in our jeans and leather jackets. Or I could confess what may be the biggest sin of them all: that, for those three blocks, I was able to actually imagine what being part of a "couple" with Elliot would be like and the very thought of it made me strut just a little bit more.

I look diagonally at Elliot, who is drinking the last of his second beer. Murphy hails our server and calls for another round of Guinness. "Actually," I begin, turning my upper body and leaning away from Murphy so I can see his face, "I think _you're_ the one who has some confessing to do."

"Pick a sin, hon. I'll confess to any of them you want me to. But," he leans in toward me and I make myself hold my ground, "You know you'll always be my _favorite_ sin."

I laugh and use a flattened hand to push him away from me. "Get over yourself, Murphy." I catch Elliot's face off to the right and his blue eyes have narrowed slightly. But, he doesn't say anything. Murphy moves back to his original position. "So, you'd be willing to confess to giving my partner shit about me?"

Elliot's eyes immediately go from slightly narrowed to slightly widened, a distinction I'm pleased not many other people would have been able to discern. He's giving me his "don't go there" look. But I'm already more than halfway there, so there's no turning back now.

Murphy looks a bit surprised and I smirk at having caught him off guard. He's a slick one, however, and recovers quickly. "Now, why would I give my best friend shit about you, my dear? _You're_," he accentuates the word by bringing his left hand to my face, using the tip of his index finger to tap me lightly on the nose, "a dream come true."

"And I'll be a nightmare come true if you don't get your fingers off my neck," I retort smoothly, in as low and threatening tone I can manage, flashing him a grin. The fingers of his right hand immediately return to curling around the back of the booth.

Since finishing his beer, Elliot has been leaning forward on the table, his arms crossed on top of it. He chooses now to speak. "You'd better watch it, buddy. Her aim is damn good." I catch his eyes and the blue in them smiles at me. I look down and away for a moment and bring my eyes back to his, silently conveying my appreciation of the compliment as well as my amusement at his bringing up our earlier conversation. Leaving his arms crossed, he leans back then, settling himself against the booth.

I turn my eyes back to Murphy, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "From what I hear, you may or may not have been giving him shit about…" I let my voice trail off, "what was it again? Oh yeah, about us not having slept together."

"Hon, we haven't slept together only because you haven't said 'yes.'" Damn, he's fast. Elliot's jaw clenches momentarily and I backhand Murphy in the stomach.

"Not _you_ and I, jackass. Elliot and I." I tip my head in my partner's direction, indicating him.

Murphy breaks out laughing, removing his right arm from behind me, using it to pick up the beer that had just been set in front of him. He sets his left hand on his denim-covered thigh and looks to his friend. "Man, you ratted me out! I don't believe it!"

Elliot merely untucks his right hand for a second, pointing at me. "She made me do it," he deadpans.

"Did not!" I huff at him, using my left foot (because it's closer) to nudge his leg under the table.

He shrugs. "_You're_ the one who asked."

I open my mouth to retort, but Murphy stops me. "Okay, kids, neutral corners. No need to start fighting dirty."

The eye contact held between Elliot and I snaps as both of us stare at him in shock at the use of the term "fighting dirty."

Murphy looks cautiously from one of us to the other. "What? What'd I say?"

Our answering "Nothing" is swift and in unison.

Murph laughs again. "See, _this_ is what I'm talking about. Christ, the two of you are in your own little world." He looks at Elliot, but motions at me with an open palm. "Seriously, man, how have you not slept with her yet? Do you not _see_ what is in front of you?" He has both palms stretched in my direction now and is sweeping them up and down in front of me like he's one of Barker's Beauties and I'm the next item up for bids.

I'm trying my best to appear offended, but then he turns on me. "And _you_…" he begins accusingly, causing me to recoil just a bit, "in case you haven't noticed, my pal over there is single. Unattached. No longer married."

I can't tell if Elliot looks embarrassed or ready to kill Murphy. Perhaps a bit of both. I take a swallow of my beer and narrow my eyes a bit fiercely at Murphy. "_You_ have no right to talk, Smurf. From what I hear, you were already giving him shit when he _was_ married." There. I laid it out there. Now it's the boys' turn to fight it out. I excuse myself to go to the ladies' room. Murphy looks as though the thought has entered his mind not to get up and instead make me crawl over him. I narrow my eyes a bit more and he stands. Once I'm standing at the end of the table, I realize I have no idea where the restrooms are. I look down and open my mouth to ask. The verbalization isn't necessary. Elliot points a thumb behind him at the same time Murphy points a finger over Elliot's shoulder. I nod and make my retreat.

Since the restrooms are behind me, Olivia quickly disappears from my peripheral vision and I really have no one else to look at except Murphy. Murphy, however, is not looking at _me_. Heis looking at Olivia. He's _watching _her. Actually, he looks like he's trying to visually _devour _her, and I'm pretty sure I don't like it. Nope, I don't. So, I do the first mature thing that comes to mind…I reach across the table with my left hand and whack Murphy on the right side of his head with the tips of my fingers. He laughs through an "ow", rubbing his temple with the butt of his palm. "Knock it off, Murphy. Christ," I scold him.

He stops rubbing his head and runs his fingers through his hair. "The hell was _that_ for?"

"For you staring at my partner like you want to eat her." He seems to consider this. Then, with an acquiescent smirk, a shrug of his shoulders and a few sideways-cocked nods, he tells me all I need to know. When he opens his mouth to speak, I hold my hand up to him in a stopping gesture. "Save it, Murph. I don't wanna know."

"Oh, come on, Stabler. If _you_ don't want to…"

I drain a good fourth of my beer and glare at him.

His mouth, still open from when his voice trailed off, stretches into a slow, knowing grin. "Holy fuck. You _do _want to."

I close my eyes. I really don't need this right now. I don't. I tell him that.

"Come on, El," he laughs. "You _do_, don't you? You want to." His voice is getting louder as he grows even more confident in what he's saying.

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, elbows on the table, knowing that anything I say in either acknowledgement or denial will only encourage him further.

He takes a swig of his beer, sets it back on the table, and he slaps the open palm of his right hand against the wood. "Son of a bitch, I _knew _it! You wanna fuck your partner." He says this as matter-of-factly as though he were giving the proper definition of a word to a spelling bee contestant, but his language makes my head immediately snap up.

"_Jesus_, Murphy! I swear to God, if she's coming right now and…" He cuts me off just as I'm turning in paranoia to make sure Liv isn't standing right in my blind spot.

"No, she's not coming _right now_, buddy. But if you give yourself a few minutes alone with her, I bet she would be." He doesn't laugh this time. He just waits silently for my reaction. Damn Irish jerk. How the hell did I pick him for a friend? Oh, right. Takes one to know one. So I've heard. My fists clench on the table. I look up, ready to argue, and he beats me to it again. "Seriously, man, you're not gonna try to _deny_ it, are you?"

I drink some beer.

Murphy looks satisfied with himself. "I didn't think so." He pauses, takes a drink from his own glass, then props himself on the table with his elbows, leaning in toward me. "Look, here's how I see it." He settles himself in, prepared to state his case. "You guys have been partners for what, almost eight years now?"

I nod.

"Now, I didn't meet her until just a few months ago, but I imagine that all these years, she hasn't exactly been hard on the eyes, right?"

I drink some beer.

"Right?"

Persistent bastard. I drink some beer. "I was married, Murph."

"And now you're not. _Then_ doesn't really matter anymore."

"I can't just forget the past." I drink some beer.

Murphy sighs at me. "Okay, you want to talk about the past? The past is that you've been miserable for quite awhile now, buddy. Since before you and Kathy even separated. It just got worse after that. But you started changing before the separation. You might want to say it was just the job. It's not. You've been doing this job for a long time, man, and this funk has been more recent. So, some of it _had _to be Liv. Other than the job and your family, she was one of the only other constants in your life. Besides me, of course, and we both know you like me too much for me to make you miserable." He smirks then, shooting me one of his trademark shit-eating grins.

"Don't flatter yourself, man." I think I might be needing another beer.

"Stabler, you used to talk about her like she was one of your closest friends. Then, nothing. Just like that. All of a sudden, anything you said about her you only said when you were pissed off, and that's if you would mention her at _all_."

"We're getting along fine now, for your information," I argue, although I'm not entirely convinced myself.

"But why weren't you in the first place? Because your marriage was falling apart and you were more closely connected to another woman than Kathy? And that woman happened to be Olivia? Because you made a choice to save her life over a vic's and had to face the reasons you did it? Because she left you and you were lost? I mean, for shit's sake, Stabler, you two have been at each other's throats since she got back. The time you should be most thankful to see her…" his train of thought seems to detour momentarily. "I do mean _thankful_, man. Getting stuck with that warrants cop? Christ, the hair! She looked like she should be squatting on a stool underneath a fucking cow somewhere in the Netherlands squirting milk out of its tits. That kiss, by the way, is an indiscretion I _still_ haven't forgiven you for—three sheets to the wind or not." He resumes before I'm able to warn him. "You really should have been thrilled off your ass to see Olivia and here you're either getting in pissing matches or doing your best to be completely indifferent."

I'm listening. Really. I am. I drink some beer.

"It's not _her_ fault your marriage didn't work. It's not _your_ fault. It's not _Kathy's_. Shit, it's not _anyone's_. Shit happens. People change. We've known each other since we were eighteen, man, and neither one of us is the same person we were then. Kathy's not the same and I'm willing to bet that even your partner's seen some change over the last eight years." He pauses to take a sip from his Guinness. "Sometimes the people we become just aren't as compatible as the people we used to be. Sometimes they're better off friends. And sometimes, two people can continually change and still always be the perfect complement to the other."

I raise a curious eyebrow at my friend. "That was awfully goddamn insightful for a man-whore like yourself, Aidan."

He laughs loudly and quickly before leveling his gaze and a pointed finger at me. "Hey now, I resent that."

My lips twitch with a smirk.

"_Murphy _is a man-whore. _Aidan _is the type of guy a girl can take home to her mother."

It amazes me that he managed to say this with a straight face. We stare at each other silently for a few seconds, both of us motionless. I narrow my eyes then, and speak a simple phrase. "_Bullshit_."

His laughter is uproarious this time and I can't help but join in.

Finally, he manages to squash the laughs and rolls his eyes. "You know what little boys do who like little girls, Stabler? They either ignore them or pull their hair and shit. I know you and you don't fool me. All this fighting and leaving and using each other…that shit's gotta stop."

I rub my hands over my face. "It's complicated, Murphy."

"Man, complications are just a bunch of crap people make up when they're too scared to get off their asses and _do_ something." He leans across the table, placing a hand palm-down in front of me, as though he were about to say something important. "Seriously, Elliot. I really think the two of you just need to fuck it out."

I glare at him. "I swear to God, Mur…"

"You boys behaving yourselves?" I look up and behind me to see Liv sauntering back up to the table, where she stops, placing her right hand on her hip and her left on the corner of the booth's back on my side. Goddamn. She knows how to work a pair of heels.

I could hear Murphy's raucous laughter from the hallway leading to the restrooms. I've been gone a bit longer than anticipated, due largely in part to my sitting on the closed lid of a toilet with my head in my hands behind the safety of the stall door. I couldn't believe what I'd started. I still can't, really. Talk about opening Pandora's box. Christ. After several minutes, I realized they might think I'd escaped out a back door, which did have its appeal, but I'd offered to pay and, at the very least, I wasn't going to bolt without leaving cash.

But, against my better judgment, I'm instead walking around to Murphy's side of the table. Well, _my _side of the table that he seems to be quite happy to occupy. Opting against having him get up to let me in, I instead begin to sit next to him, bumping him with my right hip until he scoots over. I slide all the way onto the seat, once again face-to-face with my partner. I grab the glass of beer in front of me and reach across Murphy to set it in front of him and reclaim my own from the far side of the table. I look up at Elliot, who offers me an expression of…something. Guilt? Embarrassment? Or maybe it's something else I can't recognize that's darkened his eyes to a curious shade of cobalt?

I'm a bit anxious now, so I cross my legs. Left over right, the toe of my shoe gently wrapping around the outside of his left leg. I take a long drink from my beer, then set the glass down on the table, wrapping my hands around it and drumming my fingers on the cool surface. I watch my fingers studiously for a minute. When it's apparent that neither of the men at the table want to pick up the conversation, I give in and do it myself. "So," I begin, eyes still on my fingers, "you still giving my partner shit, Smurf?" I pause a second or two and then slowly turn to stare him down.

I should have known that he wouldn't miss a beat. He's quick to respond. "What else would I have been doing while you were gone for so long?"

"You did remember to go to the _ladies' _room right, Liv?" Elliot's voice is almost lighthearted and my head snaps forward to look at him. Before I have a chance to respond with damage control (I was kind of hoping Murphy wouldn't find out about this), Murph's already all over it.

His boyish grin is wide and smirking. "As opposed to _what_, you little sinner you?" He must be able to sense I'm not about to give the details up because he immediately turns to Elliot. "Stabler?"

I wince slightly at Elliot, willing him not to go into it. I know he reads me. I know he sees it on my face. And he starts talking anyway. What the hell? "The case Liv just wrapped had her trapped in a stall in the men's room at the corporate headquarters of a very large chemical company."

Lifting my right hand to shield my eyes from Murphy, I close them briefly before shooting Elliot another warning glare. Another glare that he ignores.

"Doing _what_, exactly?" Murphy sounds far more curious than I'd like him to be.

Okay, I can get out of this. Humor. That's it. I'll joke my way out of this. I level a glare at Murphy. "Oh, I don't know. I thought that maybe the toilet seats in the men's room would be cleaner since men only sit on them fifty percent of the time as opposed to women."

He rolls his eyes at me and looks back to Elliot expectantly. Dammit.

"She needed to hack into the corporate network for information and the only semi-secure place that would pick up the signal was the men's room."

My glare shifts to my partner. "It _wasn't _just me, Elliot."

He grins.

Murphy looks positively beside himself.

"Oh, _really_? And who else was in that stall with you, missy? That's pretty close quarters."

I groan and drop my head to the table. My hands are still gripping my glass of beer and my forehead nestles neatly between my outstretched forearms.

Elliot actually chuckles a bit now. It's more a sound I'm used to hearing from Murphy, but the tone is distinctly Elliot. I think the back of my neck just formed goosebumps. Fuck. "Relax, Murph. It was just a guy from Comp Crimes. He was the one doing the hacking."

"_Relax_? Dude, if I were you, I'd do _anything_ but relax. I mean, you let another cop lock himself in a tiny little bathroom stall with your knockout of a partner? That's crazy, man."

I take the opportunity to "thump" my head lightly on the table a few times. I swear, it's like I'm not even here.

I recognize Elliot's small laugh again. "It's alright. She can handle herself."

I can ha…what? This is coming from the man who has put a protective detail on me without telling me first. Now, suddenly, I can handle myself? I furrow my brow against the tabletop. I'm not sure how to take that. Does he have some newfound confidence in me? Does that mean he didn't before? Does this just mean he doesn't worry about me like he used to? Does that bother me?

Elliot interrupts my runaway train of thoughts. "It was pretty impressive, really. They hack into this network, get some information then Liv takes Casey with her to storm the corporate office and they get this CEO by the balls."

I slowly lift my head and bring my eyes up to meet my partner's. I'm sure they must appear questioning, because I'm still confused. And humbled, because I am. The blue eyes that greet mine are soft and sincere. I feel the corners of my lips begin to creep upward just as Murphy lets out a low whistle.

"Olivia had him by the balls, huh? Damn, if you're gonna get arrested, that's the way to do it."

I sit up fully and prepare to unleash my right elbow on his ribcage when our server weaves her way back to our table with the black folder containing our ticket. She instinctually turns a bit toward Elliot when reaching to place it on the table and the bastard actually tries to snatch it. "Don't even think about it, Stabler." I hold out my hand to the server. "I'll take it." She hands it to me and I thank her. I lean forward a bit to pull a small folded wallet out of my back pocket (all the years as a cop has made me a bit wary of purses) and from the corner of my eye I can see Murphy gesturing at Elliot in a "what the hell" manner. Sure enough…

"What the hell, Stabler? What kind of date lets the lady pay?"

I freeze only momentarily in my actions, before tucking the cash for our tab and tip into the leather folder. Elliot takes a sip of his beer, sets it down and is staring at it when we recite the phrase "It's not a date" in near-perfect unison.

"Unbe-fucking-lievable," Murphy laughs. "Your own little world. I told you."

I can feel my cheeks starting to warm and I will them silently to cease before the flushing is apparent.

"Now, as much as I'd love to sit next to you all night, Sin, would you mind letting me slide out so I can get back to poor Wilson over there before he starts dancing on the bar?"

I look at him, still processing his remark about the lady paying on the date.

"Unless, of course, you'd like me to just climb over you…"

That gets me up. I stand, allowing him to slide out, beer in hand, and am about to settle back down when Elliot stands, too. "You wanna go ahead and get going, too, Liv? Before it gets too late and I open a whole new bar tab?"

I laugh. "Probably not a bad idea."

He and Murphy exchange another handshake and finalize plans for the Rangers game they're going to in a couple weeks.

Murphy turns to me then, placing a hand on my shoulder and leaning in to kiss my cheek. "Be good, Sin."

Elliot's hand in on my lower back almost immediately then, but not insistent. "See you later, Smurf," I offer in goodbye before turning to head for the door, somehow managing to feel every _millimeter_ of Elliot's hand even through the leather of my jacket. Like the proverbial princess and the pea, I suppose.

I leave my hand on Liv's back as we make our way to and out the door. Not guiding her, because Olivia Benson doesn't need to be _ushered _anywhere. Just keeping enough contact to let her know I'm there, right behind her. It probably makes _me_ feel more secure than it does her, but that's beside the point. She descends the few small steps before me, and I let my hand slip from her then. As she always does when she reaches the bottom of stairs first, she pauses momentarily, just as long as it takes for my feet to strike the ground, before she walks off, allowing me to easily fall into step with her. Our strides are more leisurely than during the walk _to _O'Brien's. A stomach full of a burger that size will do that to a person. Of course, so will reminding yourself that the walk back to your home is only three short blocks and then you'll have to say "goodnight" to your partner.

We spend the first many steps in silence and it's a quiet I'm not sure I could describe as either comfortable or un-so. I have the fingers of my hands slid into the pockets of my jeans, effectively keeping the panels of my leather jacket hooked behind my arms, and my eyes trained downward to the sidewalk as it passes beneath our feet. Actually, they're trained downward and slightly to my left so I can catch glimpses of those goddamn shoes of hers as she walks. Her shoulder bumps into mine lightly, the way her knees did to mine that night on my steps after the Sennet case wrapped and again only tonight.

"So…" she draws the word out. "How _is_ your arm, anyway?"

I shrug and then flap my right arm slightly. "It's fine. The stitches are out and they put a few butterflies and a bandage over it, but it's fine. I've got half a mind to call Cragen and make him let me come back to work tomorrow."

The sound of her laughter is rich and layered and catches my immediate attention. I turn to look at her, seeing her head thrown back with the effort and a glorious display of smile as she laughs. She holds it together long enough to stare at me and warn "You'd better the hell not." Then she drops her head, shaking it and continues to chuckle gently a few times.

I slit my eyes at her. "And why would that be?"

She regards me carefully, gauging the true level of my irritation. "Well, first of all, because _I_ don't have to go back until Thursday, so there's no need for you to be there tomorrow."

"Uh-huh…and?" I prod.

"And…" She looks away from me briefly, smiling, and she looks apprehensive about how I may receive her words, though it's apparent from her grin that she's amused with herself. She tosses a quick glance back at me, but looks ahead when she continues. "I don't want you coming back to work one minute before the doctors recommended. I'm your partner. So it'll be _my_ ass that's in danger if _your_ trigger finger isn't functioning properly."

It takes her three steps to realize I've halted on the sidewalk. She stops and turns to face me where I stand with my arms crossed over my chest. She mimics my stance, shifting her weight onto one leg and brandishing an arched eyebrow at me. "What?"

"I assure you that my trigger finger is functioning just fine, Benson." I try to make my voice as low and threatening as I can despite the urge to laugh pressing against my lungs.

Her other eyebrow joins the first. "Benson? Oh dear, you must _really_ be mad." She pouts with her lower lip, her voice soaked in sarcasm. "Resorting to the last name and all."

"You doubting me?" I ask as I advance a step toward her.

She smirks, beginning a slow stroll backwards as I continue coming at her. "Not at all. But the doctor said it might take all this time for you regain full feeling in that arm and I'm not willing to risk your finger falling asleep if we've got to shoot it out with a perp."

I can't help but notice the gentle sway of her hips as she sustains her reverse strut. She has her thumbs hooked into her back pockets, putting the full expanse of the emerald cashmere that covers her on display. "Why should _you_ be worried?" I question. I've got her here and she's about to know it. "Thought you said your aim was better than mine anyway."

She creases her brow quizzically for a second and then her eyes widen just a bit. Ha. He shoots, he scores. "Well, I…"

"You what, Liv?"

"I…uh…I just want to make sure your trigger finger is working, that's all." She plasters a self-assured look on her face and I know it's only an illusion. I can tell by the way she's walking now. Her steps become shorter, but a bit quicker.

I lengthen my own stride. "Like I said, it's working just fine." I pause. "You need proof?" I bring my right hand up in a "stop" gesture, before curling and opening my fingers in front of her in a rhythmic pattern.

She doesn't hesitate to answer and I catch myself wondering how she's managing to walk backwards so skillfully on those pencil-thin heels. "Just what kind of proof did you have in mind, Elliot?" She doesn't give me a chance to respond, instead she skips a graceful one-eighty and jogs a few steps before slowing again, laughing "Nevermind. I don't think I want to know" as she turns.

I jog to catch up and when I do, I can see from behind the curtain of her wavy hair that her cheeks have a hint of color to them. "You have a dirty mind, Olivia," I remark.

She grins.

Goddamn, those first two blocks went quickly. "So, why are you walking me home anyway, Liv? Isn't it usually the other way around? The man walks the woman home after a date?" I make air quotes when I say the last word.

She laughs again (I really do love that sound) and rolls her eyes. "Murphy. Christ." She looks at me then, playing along with my charade. "I paid, El. That means _I _get to walk _you _home." She bumps my shoulder for good measure.

I smirk. "Well, if you get to be the man, guess that makes me the woman, so…" I let my words trail off and take her right elbow with my left hand, bringing my right hand across my body to hold her elbow, too, effectively letting her escort me. "How's that?"

She looks at where my hands are now holding her and scowls. "That's just weird." She wriggles her arm from my grasp and I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets, pleasantly surprised when ten long fingers wrap around my left elbow. "That's better." She's looking over at me and it's still a bit strange to not have her looking _up _at me. When I turn my eyes her way, she looks down and away before facing ahead again.

We walk the remaining half block in silence and must look like our own version of Laverne and Shirley, the way our steps are synchronized. Makes me want to stop, kick out a heel and do the "Schlemiel, schlimazel" part just to see if she would, too. But I won't. When we arrive at the base of the steps to my building, she stops, letting her hands slip off the sleeve of my jacket and tucking them into her own pockets. I turn to face her and suddenly have no idea what to say.

She saves me. "Hey, thanks again for the advice. Dinner was a small price to pay. Even if half of it was dinner with Murphy."

I smile. "Anytime. I'll see you at work Thursday."

That gets me a laugh. "I'd better _not_ see you Thursday."

With a smile still gracing my own lips, I step up onto the first concrete stair. My foot is raised to move to the second when I stop, placing it back down on the first. I turn around and find her standing in the same place, arms now crossed, top teeth working on the corner of her bottom lip. "Hey, Liv?"

She looks up at me, surprised. "What?"

"If this were a date, and you were the man, wouldn't this be the part where you try to kiss me goodnight?"" I can't believe I just fucking said that.

"No…" she draws out the single syllable, rotating her body to face me and assuming the same stance she had on the sidewalk earlier, leaving her arms crossed and shifting her weight to one leg. "I believe that generally what happens first is you telling me what a nice time you had tonight."

"Oh. Well, I did. Have a nice time tonight, I mean."

She casts a wry smile. "So did I."

I wait a few seconds. "So, now is when you try to kiss me?"

"Aren't you going to wait for me to ask if I can call you?"

"I guess I am."

Her smile grows. "So, can I call you?"

"You know you can, Liv. Anytime."

She nods. And doesn't say anything else. She is apparently not going to make this easy for me. But then, I'm not sure that this _should _be easy. I'm not even sure what _this _is. I just know that Olivia is standing here in front of me looking nothing like my partner, but much more like the woman I imagine she would be if she had, in fact, been on a date. I really like this woman.

"Now?" I question again.

She takes the two short strides necessary to close the distance between us and gazes up at me from beneath the stray layer of hair that has fallen over one of her eyes. The extra height of the step cancels out her heels almost perfectly, bringing us to our natural difference of stature. "Is that before or after you push me off of you and scold me for being too presumptuous?"

I realize that the expression that crosses my face must have been worried because I see it mirrored on her own. She immediately looks concerned. As though maybe she's done something wrong. But that isn't it at all. I'm worried that _I've_ done something wrong. Or that what Ireally want to do is something _she _would think is wrong.

"El? What is it?"

I can't bring myself to look her in the eyes right now, so I opt for staring just above her shoulder. "Is that what you would do?"

She's not understanding. She shakes her head. "I'm sorry? Is _what_ what I would do?"

"If I tried to kiss you. Is _that_ what you would do? Push me away and think I was being a jerk?" Good Lord, you'd think I'd just sucked helium or something, as small as my voice just came out.

"I…well, but…I, uh…" she stops speaking abruptly and exhales. "_Would_ you?" We must have been at the same party. Helium all around.

"Would I what?" Now I'm lost.

"Try to kiss me." Her eyes are downcast now.

Ah. I get it now. We're both standing here, two veteran detectives, trying to call each other's bluffs. "What would you do if I did?"

There's a long pause before she speaks again. "I guess there's only one way for you to find out, right?" Only after the question is out does she drag her gaze back to my own. Despite her lowered head and the screen of hair shading her left eye, I can see the darkness of them is searching, prodding…hoping?

I decide that I don't even want to risk saying anything else. I reach out with my right hand to tuck that rogue layer of hair back behind her ear before sliding my palm down and underneath her chin, cupping her jaw with as light of a touch as I can manage. I use the hand to silently ask her to lift her face and the muscles in her neck give no resistance. I doubt her eyes have the chance to truly focus on my face in its closing proximity because the instant her lips are tilted to the proper angle, my own are on them. I softly capture her top lip between mine, letting the simple contact linger for a few seconds before releasing it and taking her bottom lip hostage. She doesn't pull away and she doesn't push into me. She's simply content to let our mouths rest against one another. When I let her bottom lip go, I pepper her mouth with a few quick kisses—one for each corner and one just straight on—before letting my hand slip from her chin and pulling back to study her reaction.

She appraises my face with sparkling eyes then uncrosses her arms and reaches out to take the panels of my jacket in her hands, tugging on them. I give to the pressure and bend toward her. She tips her chin up and responds with a firm, but quick, kiss of her own.

It's all the encouragement I needed and permission enough for the time being. I bring both my hands up to frame her face, combing my fingers into the waves of her hair, relishing the feeling of the different texture between them. My lips are still gentle with hers, though a bit more insistent. I run my tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing them open. Her tongue is ready to meet mine and the touch of it is soft, but not hesitant. Our tongues don't tangle or clash. They don't duel. They just explore. They learn. They dance.

My hands slide down over her shoulders to hold her arms just below them. When I break away from her, it's only long enough to say "Hey, Liv?" before I drop another kiss on her.

"Hmm?" she hums against my lips.

I brush my nose against hers, her breath tickling my mouth as I ask "Do you want to come upstairs with me?"

She cocks an eyebrow. "Now _that's _awfully presumptuous of you, Elliot."

Shit. "Liv, I…Jesus. I don't know. I didn't mean it like that. I just…"

She interrupts me then, her reddened lips twisting into a smirk. "I was joking, El."

It's practically impossible to describe the river of relief that just coursed through my veins at that simple admission. I let my forehead fall onto hers and rub my hands over her arms soothingly, though I'm unsure who I'm soothing. Even so, better to be safe than sorry. "Liv, I don't know how you feel about all this and I don't want to push anything on you. I just…I just know that I'm not ready to let you go tonight."

"Then don't," she whispers.

I move back enough to assess her eyes and I can see her smile there even before her lips form it. She reaches across herself with her left hand to lift my own hand from where it rested on her right arm. She brings it down in front of us and uses her right hand as well to effectively sandwich my hand between her own before craning her neck up to brush her lips against mine.

I return her slow smile and wordlessly turn around to face the door of my building. She has to let go of my hand to adjust her grip, again picking it up between hers as she lets me lead her up the front steps.

Just exactly what the fuck is going on here? I feel a bit like the wallflower being pulled toward the dance floor at the senior prom by the varsity quarterback, ducking my head and clutching his hand with both of mine for all I'm worth. My arms are fully outstretched like a dog on the end of its leash, but he's not having to pull me. I'm following him. Hesitantly, but not reluctantly. My strides are staccato in their rhythm, short and quick behind him. I'm almost thankful for the three flights of stairs we have to climb to reach his floor because an elevator would have meant having to just stand next to him, his hand as my lifeline, wondering what the hell to do or say.

My head is racing trying to remember what I would ordinarily do on a _real _first date. Of course, if this were a real first date and we were heading for the man's apartment in the state of mind I think we're both in, it would qualify not as a date, but a one-night stand. God help me, that isn't at _all_ what I want this to be. There are so many options spinning through my mind and yet I feel as though my mind is frozen at the same time, simply unable to produce a solution.

We still haven't spoken a word to each other since I breathlessly commanded that he not let me go, and that was two and a half flights of stairs ago. When we reach his front door, I tuck my body right up behind his, letting him shield me from the wooden panel that may essentially be the boundary between lovers and partners/friends/everything else. I'm thankful to be clinging to his left hand so he can use his dominant (Christ, I just thought the word "dominant" and I think I may have inadvertently squeezed his hand a little tighter between mine) one to unlock his door. One less bit of awkwardness I have to worry about. One down and…shit, I'm not even going to attempt counting.

As the door opens and he steps through, I let my arms stretch completely again before following, a dog unsure about crossing the street. The second my feet step over the threshold of the doorway, I swear my legs start shaking. Just a little, but it definitely happens. As Elliot turns to close and lock the door behind us, I trace the pattern of his movement with my own, keeping my place behind him. Once the door is locked, his body turns again. To his left. Toward me. My instinctual reaction at this point is to only allow his body to turn ninety degrees, so that our bodies are perpendicular and I'm facing the left side of his body, still clutching his hand in both of mine. When he tries passing that ninety degrees, I rotate with him, not ready to face him head-on. He must finally understand because he stills. When he does, I step into him, whispers of air separating my chest from his body and I nestle the left side of my chin against the back edge of his shoulder, ducking my head away from him.

And we stand there.

I close my eyes, listening to the waves and breaks of our breathing.

"Liv?" He says my name in a volume hardly above a whisper, causing the edges of his voice to roughen. When I open my eyes, I can see in my peripheral vision that he has turned his own chin to the same shoulder, watching me.

I close them again, rolling my lips together, chewing on my lower one a bit longer. My sigh breathes a bit shakier than I'd hoped and I turn my face slightly into his shoulder. "I'm sorry, El," I offer, my voice muffled a bit by the cool leather of his jacket. "It's just that…I'm just…I'm kind of drawing a blank." I chuckle sardonically at my own admission. "I really don't know what to do here."

His nod is nearly imperceptible. Seconds pass by and the silence is, for me, is serving only to heighten my sense of embarrassment. "You know what I wanna do, Liv?" The Brooklyn-threaded wavelengths of his voice rumble at an impossibly low pitch.

I choose to remain quiet and simply wait for him to enlighten me.

"I wanna dance with you."

My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and the back of my throat. Not moving the rest of my body, I raise my head, slowly turning it to look at him, craning my neck back toward my right shoulder to enable me to focus better. Even the blackness of his pupils is, to me, transparent, and I see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. "El, I…"

"Look, Liv, if this _had_ been a real date, for the sake of argument, we could have done dinner and dancing. We've already had the dinner. So, now, I think we should dance."

"There isn't any music, Elliot," I protest weakly.

"Don't care. I just wanna dance with you, Olivia. I just wanna hold you. Move with you."

Jesus Christ. If that didn't just hit me below the belt in everything but a painful way, I don't know what did because I'm suddenly worried I might wind up with a wet spot on my jeans. Thongs never did provide much protection from that. Fuck. Besides, replaying what he just said in my head, I realize it's pretty hard to argue with that sort of logic. So, I don't. Because I can't.

"Here." He shakes his hand from my grasp and my hands feel suddenly cold and empty. They are also a bit numb, along with the rest of my arms and I don't know that I could do anything with them even if I knew what _to _do. Instead, I let my arms dangle limply at my sides, where they landed after dropping away from his hand. His eyes are trained downward, watching where he slips his hands around my waist, cradling the curve that is the border between my torso and hips. I lean my upper body slightly away from him, bracing on his hold on me, still staring at his face despite the downcast eyes. When his eyes return to mine, it's when he has started gently swaying with me, our feet moving scarcely as they shift across his carpeted floor.

My breathing is shallow and inaudible, the air escaping through my parted lips as I begin to swim in his eyes. When I begin to feel like I'm drowning, I try in vain to scramble my way to the surface, to find something to hold on to. My fingers are trembling and the tremors run the course of my arms as I gingerly raise them. When my fingertips settle onto his shoulders, it's a sensation of breaking the surface, gasping the breath of oxygen you weren't sure you'd ever get. I shudder through a deep breath, in and out, and slide my hands around his neck, stepping into him. My left hand curls around his neck and my right cradles the back of his head. I lean my head to the right, resting my temple against his, trying desperately to concentrate on just breathing. My legs are starting to move between his or his between mine, I really can't tell. Nor do I really care.

Breathing goes out the goddamn window the instant his lips touch my neck. I freeze midway through an inhalation and bite down on my lip. His lips, meanwhile, are dragging up and down my neck, planting gentle kisses much like the ones he first graced me with outside. When he scrapes his top teeth lightly on my skin, I release my breath in a shaky rush of air and give in, dropping my head away from him to allow him all the access he wants. At the first touch of his tongue, I let my hands slip from their handles on him, running my palms down until I can hook the tips of my fingers underneath his jacket. I push upward then, peeling the leather away from him. I curl my arms underneath his, hugging his shoulders from behind. He, in turn, lets go of my waist only long enough to let the jacket fall from his arms onto the floor and then they're back in place, his thumbs swiping back and forth over my skin. Actually, over the light-knit cashmere of my sweater, but it may as damn well be my skin because I feel every last point of contact.

His mouth, however, has yet to leave my neck, except for the few seconds it traced my jaw and he soon seems to realize that I still have my own jacket on and moves to remedy that situation. When I shake it to the ground, where it lands nearly on top of his due to our continual circular movement, I have the strong urge to one-up him.

So I go for his shirt.

I start to drag my hands down his back, he nips my neck, I do something that sounds like squeaking, and _that_ is fucking ridiculous. I grab two fistfuls of his shirt near his belt and tug it out of his jeans. My one-upmanship is lost when he anticipates my move and takes it upon himself to whip the T-shirt over his head and off. His hands aren't even on me right now, nor are mine on him, so it's beyond me while we're still circling each other like a pair of boxers looking for the moment to strike when we're separated by mere inches. I glance down and am confronted by the broad expanse of my partner's chest and holy fuck, I have to kiss him. Now.

My hands are on his face then, fingers webbing out across his cheeks and under his jaw. I don't yank him to me, but go to him. I don't crush my lips to his, but reintroduce them. I don't demand that his tongue come out to play, but ask if it will. Our tongues touch and I know that his is a taste I never want to forget. I hope and pray I will never have to try. His hands are back in my hair and my entire scalp is on pins and needles.

We've been moving in a circular box step for so long that I nearly stumble with the sudden shift in direction he leads us into. I'm walking backward, he's walking into me, our legs doing some crazy spidery tango as they bump and tangle into each other. Our legs aren't the only things colliding with each other. Each time our hips make contact I can feel that he's hardened just a bit more than the time before. I have no idea where I'm going and I hope he does because I'm pretty sure he's not looking. His steps stutter as he somehow manages to pry off the boots he was wearing as we walk. I only know this is what he did because he's suddenly just the slightest bit closer to my height. I would try to kick off my own shoes just as deftly but worry that if I did, the drastic change in my height would most certainly cause me to trip, and I have no intention of falling until it's onto his bed. His hands abandon my head and it feels as though it weighs several extra pounds without the support of his fingers. Those fingers are otherwise occupied going for the hem of my sweater.

I think we've passed through a doorway but I'm not entirely sure. I'm feeling a bit intoxicated by the rich scent of his cologne, drugged by his kisses and just completely fucking turned on. These jeans will ensure that I do laundry tomorrow but, let's face it, the sooner I get them off, the better. Get them off. Mother of God. A growl of a moan climbs up my throat at the thought and he breaks the kiss to look at me curiously. No better time than when our lips are separated to let him lift my sweater off my body. I'm not sure if his eyes are black or blue right now as they take in the sight of my black satin and lace bra, but I'm quite certain that the only things bruised right now are my lips.

His gaze is hawk-like when it returns to mine. "Christ, Olivia. Is _this _the kind of stuff you wear to _work_?"

Of course it is. A girl who's one of the guys needs to feel like a lady sometimes, too. I nod my head shyly.

His answering growl is guttural and borderline savage and it's official: the jeans have to come off. Now.

I back a few steps from him, holding a hand out in front of me when he tries to follow. When he obliges by halting his advance, I take one more step and stop. I don't break my eye contact with him as I toe off my shoes. My low-slung jeans are now a bit too long for me, the added few inches of length in the leg to compensate for the height of my heels now pool around my feet on the floor. My fingers reach for the button of my jeans and don't ask me how I managed to undo the fastener with _any_ sort of coordination because I don't have an answer to that. I lower the zipper, hook my thumbs into the sides of the waistband and start to slowly shimmy out of the denim. Elliot is watching every nuance of every move I make, his stare even more hawkish than before. I can see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching as the waistband reaches my knees. When I drop them to the ground completely and step out them, he rubs a hand roughly over his face. By the time his eyes are uncovered I've taken two strides in his direction and he quickly stops me.

What the hell?

I crinkle my brow at him, questioning.

He gestures to the space behind me with one hand. "Leave them on."

Oh no. No, no, no. There is no way in bloody _hell_ I'm putting my jeans back on now. For Christ's sake, I'm standing in my partner's bedroom in nothing more than a bra and thong and if he thinks for just one _second _that I'm going to put my jeans back on he's sorely mistaken. The thing is, the look on his face is saying that _he_ doesn't want me to put my jeans on, either. So, what gives? I voice my question. "What?"

He motions again, this time a little more pointedly. "The shoes. Leave them on."

Oh.

The shoes.

Well, fuck me.

Of course, that _was _the whole idea behind the gift of those shoes…

I back away, little by little, until I reach my shoes, only looking down to tip them upright with my toes. I watch him as I slip each foot back into its proper red-soled stiletto. When I'm again four inches taller, he crooks a finger (his trigger finger, I notice) at me. "C'mere."

I comply, doing my best to saunter, not walk, to him. When I'm face-to-face with him, Elliot wastes no time. "Fuck, you're beautiful." The words haven't even processed in my brain before he grabs me by the back of my head and crushes his lips to mine. I take a lesson from the newly frenzied way his mouth is devouring my own and grab insistently at the belt around his waist. I bite his lower lip as I shove his jeans down over his hips. He groans as he unhooks my bra and drops the straps down my arms until they fall off my hands, still lowered from removing his jeans. I moan into his mouth as his hands cup my breasts, the skin of his palms deliciously abrasive against my hyper-sensitive nipples. He abandons my mouth to nip gently at the curvy intersection of my neck and shoulder. Free somewhat to move my head now, I look down to admire the skin I've uncovered and prepare to divest him of his underwear, too, when…

Holy shit. Is _this _what my partner does when he's got too much time on his hands at home? Go goddamn fucking _commando_? Fuck. No the hell wonder he groaned like he did when I yanked his jeans off. Here I thought it was just because I bit his lip. But no. It's because I just dragged denim over this glorious erection of his that I can't believe I'm going to have inside me. I'm reaching for him then, at the same time he's trying to pull my thong down off my body. I have a sneaking suspicion that the reason he's finding it difficult is because I have my thighs clenched so tightly together now in anticipation. I wrap a hand around him and the slight faintness I feel at the thought of him driving this into me causes my legs to weaken momentarily and he's quick to pull my underwear past my thighs, letting them fall the rest of the way to my ankles.

I step out of them with my left foot but when I go to do the same with the right, they tangle on the shoe and I have to kick that leg to shake them loose. Elliot grabs my right leg under my thigh before I have a chance to lower it, smoothing his hand around and over the skin of my leg. He hooks me by the knee and hitches my leg up onto his hip, grabbing me around my waist and pulling me against him. His hardness collides with the juncture of my thighs and I go to cry out, but it's muffled in his mouth on mine. I put my hands on his shoulders and hop lightly off the ground with my left leg, locking my ankles around him. Where gravity causes me to settle in this little reverse piggy-back ride is with my clit rubbing up against the head of his cock. And I'm ready. To come. Right now.

I grab his face between my hands and answer his kiss with every ounce of passion I can muster. He walks to the bed, my back to it, and places one knee on the mattress. Then the other, until he is kneeling on the bed with me still latched to him. His hands on my lower back, he bends forward, settling me on the mattress, kneeling low to my body between my legs, which I've unhooked and dropped open unashamedly. To have any hope whatsoever of having my feet level on the bed, I've had to draw my legs up as far as I could without them being pushed back for me. I can't recall a time in my life where I've been this close to the edge at this early stage in the game and I'm not sure if he's read my mind or if it's a lucky guess or if he just somehow knows my body so well already, but suddenly, he's leaning over me, his face less than an inch from mine and I'm arching up underneath him, the words, "Oh, God," escaping my lips more than once.

I'm pretty sure that just then, there was a finger curled inside me and another on my clit at the same time, but I really don't give a flying fuck until these tremors subside. My eyes are widened in surprise and when I recover enough of my vision to focus on him where he hovers over me, I see him holding his right hand up next to his head. His thumb and forefinger are forming an "L." When he tilts his wrist so that the forefinger is pointing at me, I see that it's really forming a gun. He crooks his forefinger at me. The grin on his face is positively diabolical. "Trigger finger."

My eyes narrow. "Bastard." As I scold him, I throw my right leg over his back and dig my stiletto into his ass.

"Ow!"

"Serves you right."

"I'll make it up to you."

"You'd better."

He raises an eyebrow at me, placing his right hand on my hip and running it slowly down the length of my bent leg until he reaches my shoes. Wrapping his hand around the stiletto heel, using it as leverage, he lifts my foot from the mattress and presses the heel in toward me just a little bit more, and I am as open to him as I can be. He looks down at me, braced above me on his other arm. "I swear to God, Liv, if you don't wanna…"

I don't give him the chance to finish, because I know the question and I know the answer and I can feel the tip of him pressing at me and that's enough for me. I press on his ass with the heel of my other shoe again and manipulate my hips to draw him up into me as much as I can, which isn't much…the rest of the way I'm going to need his help with.

"Shit," he draws out, letting his hips sink onto mine, finishing the job I'd started.

The insides of my closed eyelids just went glittery with the quick-adjustment job my body just pulled off to accommodate his. He still seems hesitant to move and I thrust up at him. "Elliot, I'm fine. Pill."

I think my ability to still read him at this moment in time must have surprised him. "You amaze me, Olivia."

"And _you're_ keeping me waiting, Elliot." I toss him a lopsided grin for his benefit.

"Can't have that, can we?" He drops a kiss on my lips, pulling out of me and inching his way back in.

A few of those and I'm done with it. "Fuck, Elliot. Enough with the slow and easy. That's what later is for." I dig my heel into him, hoping maybe to spur him on.

Whether it was my words or my Christian Louboutin spurs, I don't know, but that was all it took to unleash everything Elliot had been holding back. The thrusts became hard and fast, long and deep and when he finally lets go and I arch up underneath him, the only things I'm sure of in the haze that's consuming me are that I love this man and that he's going to have a hell of an eight hundred dollar bruise in the morning.


End file.
